


A Good Man

by Fyliwion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Canon, Alcohol Abuse, Character Death, Dark John, F/M, M/M, Not Season/Series 02 Compliant, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-08
Updated: 2011-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-14 13:58:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyliwion/pseuds/Fyliwion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson never had liked the man he used to be, nor had he ever claimed to be a good man. Once Sherlock was gone he began to remember why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Man

**Author's Note:**

> It should be noted the original was completed prior to Series 2. The fall resembles more of the canonical and thus has since fallen into AU category with a different take on the Great Game and Reichenbach.

Most people narrow down the moment where their life is change irrevocably. 

There is, of course, the moment they decide their purpose in life, or fall in love, or something as simple as having sex for the first time. 

For John Watson there was never simply one, but rather three. 

There had been the "life changing circumstances." Graduating from medical school and then joining Her Majesty’s Service, but at the end game those were steps leading to a painting that he could never have foreseen. 

It is difficult to take in the ramifications of life to the fullest without first knocking at death's door. Finding oneself bleeding to death in the middle of a desert has the impact needed to change a person’s life forever. 

“Post-war." 

It proved to be the first of many things that would lead to the metamorphosis of John Watson.

It was the moment that a reckless, ambitious, and bright young man felt as though he had aged over night. He lost everything and he knew there could be nothing more debilitating, nothing more life changing then the small piece of metal that ripped through his skin leaving an empty shell in its wake. 

It was the tang of blood, the horror, the anguish of a lost soul that fell through the sand and never quite left the desert. 

It took a man and left a body that was little more transport. 

Then he met Sherlock. 

And if John had been bright before the war afterwards he could have burst. It was air he had never dared to breath, and by god if there was a man who could show you the world, Sherlock Holmes was him. Everything was vivid, sharp, and wonderful in ways John could never hope to discribe.

So it was only fair that what lay after was far worse than any horror a bullet wound could allow.

That his reflection in his best friend's tomb stone stripped him bare.

Staring back through the tombstone was a problem that had begun before the war, a problem that was something his therapist had missed altogether, and if the Holmes brother’s had ever known they had never dared hint at. 

Sherlock may have seen him imbued with traits like loyalty, bravery, honor, and other virtues that often set men apart from their peers. His soldiers had followed him blindly and proudly. John Watson was suppose to be a pride for those around him, and above all a good man. 

It had never been true. 

Not before the war, not now, and some days he wondered if it ever had been.

Only no one was left to remember how he had protected his sister from the other students’ taunts and ridicules.

How he had seen her tormentors beaten to a pulp. Landing two boys in the hospital before he could be sure no one would touch his little sister again.

Honorable?

Perhaps.

Would he have killed them? He sometimes wonders.

No. John Watson was not a kind man. 

When his father had gotten drunk one too many times John had taken him and tossed him out to the gutter. 

The looks, the shame, even the tears from his mother's face had not moved him.

When the old man died he couldn't bring himself to shed a tear and God himself could not have forced him to the funeral.

His mother's painkillers he'd tossed down the drain admist her screams and rants, no longer able to face her vacant stares through her cocktails of Valium and codeine. 

And God knew addiction ran in his family... 

He loathed his limp and intermittent tremor in his hand. He hated the nightmares that plagued him, and the knowledge he would never continue what he began. 

In the wake of the war, John Watson had never wished to return to the man he had been before. 

After Sherlock, he couldn’t keep away. 

 

* * *

 

_  
Falling, tumbling, slamming into the side of every jagged stone in the unfathomable drop into the abyss and the whole while Moriarty struggled in his arms._

_John stood immobilized. His gun was in his hand, but there was nothing to be done. The drop was too far, and the two bodies were too intertwined to risk a single shot._

_A wrong turn at the wrong moment and he could just as easily kill Sherlock as Moriarty._

_“Sherlock!” The tone was the same as the one he carried in his days from the service, sharp and quick although there was a lining of worry in the single word that spoke more than the command. He couldn’t quite bring himself to care about the red dots that danced along his body. Who the fuck gave one ounce of thought to his actions when the two men that mattered most were tumbling over the side of a bloody waterfall?_

_It was impossible not to see the moment that Moriarty realized it was over. The look of disbelief and enthusiasm that his eyes glowed with undeniable even from that distance. Another two minutes and the man’s body would be nothing more than splintered bones and a broken neck._

_Sherlock had just barely dragged himself from the wretched man’s grasp. There was that cocky look of triumph on his face as he leaned down to whisper something towards the soon-to-be dead man._

_But there was always something, always the missing link, and in this case there was no rational reason. The damn coat, the damn coat that it was far too warm for the detective to be wearing at all._

_It played out in slow motion, John trying to get the shot out before it was too late._

_The trigger was pulled, but the hand had already tightened on the hem giving the last momentum needed as Sherlock slipped on the damp rocks, dragged over the edge by the triumphant if now dead Moriarty._

_“Sherlock!!” the name was ripped from his throat this time as he nearly threw himself over the edge as well. “NO! You can’t! Dammit! Sherlock! Sherlo-”_

 

He sat up in an empty bed, the dead man’s name still on his lips. Sunlight poured in through immaculate drapes, and John felt trapped under layers of soft comforters and down pillows. He shut his eyes, listening intently to the sound of his heart rattling within his chest. It wasn’t enough, but there was little else to be done. 

“John!” the soft voice trailed from the sitting room, “John you must get up and look!” 

He hadn’t yelled in his sleep then. Thank God for the little things. 

  
It took longer to find a pair of trousers and a jumper than it should have, so that by the time he made his way out of the room Mary had removed herself to the kitchen to finish breakfast. 

Presumably the package had arrived at some ungodly hour, and not by any normal postal service that John could discern either. The monstrosity was grotesquely large and impeccably wrapped (no doubt by some ridiculously overpriced wrapping service.) 

The whole ridiculous scene caused John’s heart to stop the moment he saw it. 

He waited for the tell-tell ticking sound that he knew would emanate from it at any moment. Surely it was a bomb or some other god awful trap come to life that would blow the flat to bits the minute he touched the wrapping. There was no other explanation for it, after all he’d been under the impression the last of their gifts had been received a week past. 

He thought of asking Mary if she happened to know where the bloody thing had hailed from, but he saw no reason to worry her with his paranoia. He could hear her humming from the other room, and the package didn’t seem to be giving off any signs of hazardous materials. He’d survived the war, he’d survived Sherlock, and he could surely survive an overly pretentious package sitting on the dining room table. 

Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so difficult if there hadn’t been hideously garish flowers on his bed table in the hospital after being blown up by the Semtex. 

Or the package sent to the house on February the 14th with a woman’s hand clutching a blood red valentine and a voice message calling "Darling". 

He could still remember he sickly sweet scent that accompanied the invitation for that final meeting. 

Impossible though, as John had been the one to officially declare Moriarty dead. He’d seen the body, and while it may have taken weeks to recover the battered and nearly unrecognizable form of the man there had been no doubt in the assessment. DNA matches had been formed, just like the broken neck, the severed artery’s, the bloated skin from sitting in the water far too long had assured John that the man was as dead as a person could make him. Shot, broken, and drowned. 

The months had continued, but part of John couldn’t help but feel relief that the only remains of Sherlock’s had been the damn coat. 

“Well?” he turned to see Mary standing in the door. Her smile was contagious, and somehow his suspicions seemed absurd as she walked towards him. “Are you simply going to glare at it all day or open it? I am rather curious what the whole matter could be.”

“Of course,” he smiled back feeling like a very different man then the one who had been brooding several minutes before. Moriarty was dead  and there would be no bomb stashed inside. It was obviously nothing more than a belated wedding gift, and the paranoia was precisely why he had given up his life from his days of running with Sherlock. 

Even as his fingers slipped on the inside, double checking for wires, there was nothing but the smooth interior lined with velvet. Soft tissue paper to be pushed back and several pieces all stack together.

Damn. 

Of course, the thirteen place setting of the china Mary had seen, a passing fancy that she had whispered to him knowing quite well they’d never be able to afford it with his current practice. 

Her face was flush as she nearly dropped the plate she had drawn out from the box, “John? You didn’t—“ 

“I didn’t,” he confirmed as he set down the teacup he was holding rather unceremoniously. Looking inside he found what he’d been looking for, a small piece of stationary with elegant penmanship:

_Congratulations._

_Or condolences. I personally have never seen past the_   
_value of a marriage for anything more than a political maneuver._   
_Next time do send an invitation around will you?_

_MH_

It explained the wrapping and the stealth. It also spoke volumes more than a simple wedding gift of expensive china. 

John wondered just how questionable his sanity was if knowing Mycroft Holmes was still watching him on the CCTV actually made him breathe easier. 

“John?” there was a hint of worry in her tone, and for the third time that morning he was dragged out of memories that were best left buried. 

“Just an old friend,” he said forcing a smile, and placing a careful kiss on her cheek. “We’ll send a card.” 

* * *

 

He thought he was going crazy the first time it happened. He was watching the telly while Mary prepared dinner, and there, right in the corner of a report concerning another unsolvable murder, was the swirl of a black coat. 

His mouth went dry, and he nearly dropped the cup of tea he had been drinking. 

It was a little thing, paranoia, there was no way it could have been Sherlock. But for a second he thought he caught a glimpse of dark hair, a tall thin body, and God yes it  _had_ to be the same coat. 

“John? Are you alright?” Mary’s voice came from the doorway, and he found himself jolted out of his thoughts. 

“What?” He turned from her and back to the telly, “I thought—“ looking back at the report; however, he got a better glimpse at the man. Not as tall, not as thin, eyes not the right shade, a passing witness to the crime.   
  
Of course… 

“Nothing love,” his heart was still pounding in his chest and the tremor in his hand was completely stilled. 

“Well dinner’s ready when you are.” 

“Of course,” he flicked the television off, a last glimpse towards the crime scene still playing.   
  
Ridiculous. 

* * *

 

“Thank you again for coming,” the DI said as he took another swallow from the pint. 

“A second eye really has its uses, and damn but I hate Anderson some days," Lestrade gave a bit of a laugh, "Most days really." 

John laughed as he took a sip of his own drink. The pub was on the other side of town, further from his new home but far closer to Baker Street then he would have preferred. It was near the crime scene he had consulted on was though, and they had both been in serious need of a couple pints after the bloodbath it had proven to be.

it had been good to get out though, and he'd needed it more than he should've let on. _'Gets off on it'_ Donovan had warned him. 

God if she only knew.

He realized the DI was talking and John nodded, “Of course I didn’t mind. It was a bit like the old days, although I’m not certain what I’ll tell Mary about it.” 

“Ah yes, the married life. I remember that. My condolences,” Lestrade gave him a wry smile, “The ex wasn’t very fond of my hobbies either. 'Course I didn't really find hers all that enjoyable either. Bloody gym teacher.” 

It was like being back in his school days really, a pint in hand with the mates as John laughed, “Not like that Greg. I'd argue Mary is  _too_  understanding. She'll want to hear all about it I haven't the slightest doubt. A blessing really.” Mundane. Perfect. It was precisely the thing a young John Watson had always wished for, a pleasant home, a beautiful and understanding wife, and a good career. 

“So things are... good then?” John looked up startled. There was something in the way Lestrade's face went entirely still. A furrow of the man's brow, the twist of a lip and John felt his stomach clench in distaste. 

“Fuck's sake Lestrade, It’s been nearly two years." said John shortly. He tried to brush it off with a smile. “Mary’s a saint. Everything I could have wanted. You... I'd think even Anderson could tell you I'm fine.” Half-truths, he wondered vaguely when he'd become so good at them and what had given it way to the DI. 

Martial bliss, bloody hell he heard it frequently enough. It was the title of his new found life "The Idyllic Portrait of Martial Bliss." 

“Never mind then-“Lestrade's smile slipped slightly before taking the last swig in his pint. He turned around to motion towards their server for another round. “And I had heard that your practice is doing rather well. Funny that. I knew you were a practitioner, but somehow it never really struck me when you were...” He cut off with a slight cough.   

Thank God. John would walk out if the man mentioned Sherlock again, “Yes well it was easy to forget it after the war. Hardly wroth bothering with the temp work now that I don’t have to worry about time. Mary doesn’t always appreciate the irregular hours, but at least it keeps us busy.” He swirled the dregs in his pint. “I would have been daft to not take the opportunity.” 

Funny. _He_ had always been so fond of calling Lestrade an idiot. Always so sure the man hadn't a perceptive bone in his body, and yet the DI stared right at him and with a cocked eyebrow asked (and it was hardly a question) “Bored?” 

“Oh God yes,” said John before slamming down the rest of his drink. “You can't imagine. The pay’s better than the clinic, and I'm thankful for that, but the problems people invent to visit me? God Greg if I see one more cold...” 

What he didn’t tell Lestrade was about the time he’d had a case of apparent Ebola, and then the incident of potential bird flu. 

A week in quarantine had been the most welcome relief. The thrill as he realized the symptoms and rang emergency. His hands when another man had started vomiting blood for what he had thought was a stomach ache... 

 _He_ would have said...exquisite . 

“You’re helping people and its obvious you care. None of us are him.”

John wasn’t certain how much that statement was true anymore though. At one point perhaps, but it was difficult to care when most of the problems were nothing more than a particularly bad bout of hay fever.

“And Mary keeps me sane." 

He barely noticed when the pretty red headed barmaid brought them their second round and and slipped it in front of John. He'd noticed her earlier, the pretty smile, the breasts, and her fuck me heels as she disappeared occasionally for her smoke break.

Suddenly she was leaning over and pushing a second shot along with his pint “Think you could use it.” Her smile was infectious, and he forced himself to sit up as he met her eye.  

“Ah thanks."

He'd seen her glance his way a few times, ignoring the ring evident on his finger. But this time she raised her own shot to John's and he couldn't ignore the way her eyes gave him a once over.

He threw her a wink that did not go unnoticed by Lestrade.

He couldn't bring himself to care. 

Their glasses clinked a death toll. 

* * *

 

It happened on the street this time.

He was coming back from a match when he caught sight of a man passing him by on the street. 

His hair was too short and stature not quite right, but there was something in his strides and the way his long coat wrapped about him that caught John’s attention.

Perhaps he’d had one too many pints, he couldn’t have told anyone what possessed him, but his night had been bad enough so why not risk it. 

After glancing innocently enough in a shop, he turned back around strolling after the man. It was difficult keeping up the pace, but then he had to be certain. 

There had been no body after all. 

He continued his following for nearly three blocks when a voice caused him to stop, 

“John? Hey! John Watson?” 

Sally Donovan darted across the street stopping him, “It is you! I thought so. How have you been? I heard about you and Mary—“ 

He was torn, his eyes still trained on the main who wasn’t-quite-Sherlock, but sighed and let the matter go. With a smile he turned to Sally with a nod, “Yeah. Cases good then?” 

“Suppose. As good as they can be things considered-“

Of course. Now she missed the  _Freak_ , and part of John took comfort in that. “Look I was just heading for some coffee. Don’t suppose you’d care to-“ 

One last glance, but the man had already disappeared in the London throng. 

“Yeah, I’d like that.” 

Maybe he was going crazy.

 

* * *

 

"Bloody hell John, what in God’s name were you thinking!" His sister stood in the doorway with a distinct look of disgust as she took in the flat. “You’re not twenty again in case you had some misconception.” 

John looked up from his place on the couch with a bleary eyed reaction. The half opened bottle of wine sat next to him along with his third pack of cigarettes. He lay on the couch barely giving her so much as a passing notice, “What’ya doing here Harry?” 

His voice slurred slightly. Dear God why couldn't she leave him be so he could pass back out into oblivion? 

“Cleaning up your fucking mess, that’s what,” well she always could curse like a sailor even at the best of times. “Awful hypocritical if I do say bro.” She grabbed the wastebasket and began stuffing the old take out boxes, bottles, and other misdemeanors into it. 

“Who’s hypocritical? I'm simply following the proud Watson heritage,” he slung back the bottle just before she ripped it out of his hand. There was a moment when he thought he might fight her for it, but some things were too ingrained even at rock bottom.

“John, be serious. Your the golden boy. The one to _prove us wrong._  You’re never drunk like this. God knows you would barely drink at all, even in uni, and look I’m willing to accept your other vices, but this-" She walked to the small kitchen pouring out the rest of the bottle as he lit up another cig, "This is going too far.” 

By the time she returned the smoke had formed about his head and she could see the remnants of the others in the ashtray at the table.

“Just how many have you had today anyway?” 

A giggle slipped from his lips, dark and perverse and he watched with pleasure that it nearly sent Harry stumbling back out of the flat completely, “Three pack problem—“ the joke was lost on her, but the words burned in a way that the alcohol could never quite reach. A burn that rested under his skin. 

“Shit John this is ridiculous. What if I went and downed one of these bottles hmm?” She held up what was left of the scotch. “You know I could. Here I’m going on two years sober, and perhaps I should just pour myself a glass-" she held it up as his eyes went sharp and a momentary pang of guilt ran through him.  “Tell me big brother, would you stop if I did that?” 

“Stop Harry. Not fair, different situation,” his voice was harsh and he turned away from her burying his head into the cushions. 

“It bloody well is not! You screwed up just like I did. Mary loved you, and don’t you dare tell me she wasn’t everything you wanted. I know you John, right down to your idiotic jumpers and your teen fantasies." He winced trying to muffle out her voice. "You think I don't know how to tell after Clara? I think I've got a pretty good picture of what it looks like when someone screws up like that. Shove over will you,” he grunted as she forced him over on the couch running a hand over his back. “Johnny—“ 

“I think I’m well aware too Harriet.” 

Her fingers ran in circles along his back, just like the time he came down sick when he was fourteen and Mum had been out of town. Harry had done the same thing then, making some terrible soup concoction and forcing ginger beer down his throat. She’d rubbed his back, and watched over him for hours. He’d protested he was too old to be coddled, but they both seen through the lie. 

Just the once, but it was a good memory—even when it turned into a bout of pneumonia and he’d landed in the hospital for three days. She’d done her best, and he could remember her crying when their Mum had told her they’d have to take him to the A&E.

“Do you miss him that much?” her voice was soft and her fingers never stopped, even as his body grew taut. He was like a bullet ready to be shot, and Harry was worried he might shut off again. “You don’t have to tell me Johnny, but—“ 

The shuddering breath was all she needed to know. She could feel his heart speed up, and recognized the symptoms even as the nearly inaudible reply came. 

“Yes. I suppose I do.” 

 

* * *

 

It was a bit ridiculous when you began seeing a dead man everywhere you look. 

Glimpses on the telly, on the street, in half hidden shots in the post, there was a while when everywhere he looked it was all he could do to  _not_ see _him_. 

Even after his marriage fell to pieces, and then Harry, God help her, helped patch him back together, that much hadn’t changed. 

Like tonight, when the man he saw looked very little like the consulting detective at all. For one, his hair wasn’t even the right color, it was  _ginger_ , John didn’t even  _like_ gingers. 

Perhaps it was the second drink he’d had at the bar, or the fact he was far too old to be frequenting a bar like this. Except his dates had grown boring, and he couldn’t bring himself to watch another woman get hurt because his life was a catastrophic mess.

It wasn’t what he wanted. He was done with relationships. His running tally had thus far been horrific.

A quick fuck on the other hand sounded genius. 

So he’d talked himself into the club, and now he was being plagued by his damned ghost. 

Again.

The ginger didn’t as much as look at him. Tall, skinny, and at least the hair was the right length. He couldn’t quite catch his face, although he could tell the faint scars on his arm from using. Light, barely perceivable in the dark club, but he could recognize a high when he saw one. 

He considered walking over knowing very well the man was too young, too dangerous for his tastes, but it was then that another man slid up next to him with an intrigued look in his eyes, “I wouldn’t get involved if I were you, that one’s trouble.” 

John turned with a snort, “Who’s to say that’s not what I’m looking for?” 

It earned him a hard look from this new man. The laugh he was met with was hardly kind but for a moment the baritone made him completely at ease, “Maybe so. But I can promise you I’m just as much of a challenge and with half the baggage he’ll give you.” A wink as he waved to the bartender ordering them both a round of drinks.

A glance at the man’s dark hair, light complexion, and warm eyes, it was enough. 

John turned away from the ginger.

Just a quick fuck. For the moment it would be enough. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Harry tells me your practice is doing well.” 

John had always found it remarkable how easy it was to talk to Clara compared to his sister. Easier even now that Clara had been wiped nearly completely from his tastes. Too similar to Mary, too many memories better left buried.

He took a sip of the tea, his eyes glancing out the window as he nodded, “I suppose. Better than before at least.” 

“You really should stop in sometime. Harry would love to see you,” he could hear the rest of what she didn’t say. The bits on how well he was doing after the break down the year before, and that his sister wanted to show off their new flat and how well she and Clara were patched up. 

Better even than the first time around. 

He loved Harry, he really did, but sometimes she just needed to leave well enough alone. 

“I’ll try Clara, no promises, but if work lightens up a bit we’ll see. Difficult to get away, influenza season and all,” it was a shoddy excuse but partially true. Too bad most of the cases were just colds and infections. Nothing as serious as that and if anything his left patients angrier once he told them he couldn’t do more than prescribe bed rest and fluids. 

It was days like this that left him at the matches, at least giving him  _something_ to risk. Too safe, that’s what his life had become again, safe. Even his break with Mary had provided some sort of excitement in his life, wrong or no. 

She reached out and brushed his hand, sisterly affection that even his own kin barely knew how to impart, “It gets better John. I promise. It’s only been a year, and I’m certain you’ll find someone. You’re too sweet not to,” her laugh was infectious when she added, “Much sweeter then Harry ever was.” 

  
Even he had to laugh at that, “Have to agree with you there. I don’t think ‘sweet’ was ever something Harry was accused of being. Passionate, tyrannical, a horror—“ 

“John!” 

He grinned, “Which is why we love her. I know Clara, I know, and I’m trying.” 

God knows he was, too bad the problem had nothing to do with his ex-wife; somehow he thought it would make the situation far simpler. 

* * *

 

He’d finally stopped jerking his head every time he saw a dark coat on the street.

But it didn’t stop him from staring at the man outside Scotland Yard. Just a glance, a catch of dark hair, a battered coat, a shine in his eyes…

And then he was gone. 

* * *

 

“Bloody hell,” his arm ached, his leg ached, it had been too long since John had _really_ assisted on a case. The current one had been intriguing though, and Lestrade had offered to let him come along asking if he’d be willing to take a look at some of the wounds on the body. 

Dangerous, a mystery, it was everything Sherlock would have loved in a case, so much so that when he’d opened the front page and read about it the whole thing was impossible to ignore. 

He’d texted Lestrade, and while he might not be Holmes, John felt it might be interesting to attempt to apply his methods. 

His clinic was closed for the day anyway, and he might as well do something beyond watching rubbish television for once. 

The whole case was as fascinating as he had expected, although both he and Lestrade had come up empty handed. He told the DI he’d return the next day to look over the body once it was in the mortuary, but now it was as though all his old injuries had come back tenfold. 

No making dinner then far easier to simply pick up something on the way home.

A ten minute fight with the chip-and-pin machine, and he was headed back to the flat wishing he'd juts foregone food when he ran completely into an old man. 

The groceries fell, the parcel the old man carried tossed aside, and his own leg half ready to give out as he attempted to retrieve them.

“Christ,” he said helping him up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” he’d still been thinking of the wounds on Adair’s body. 

The older man glared, sharp eyes behind the deep wrinkles and heavy eyebrows. He wore a heavy brimmed hat (far out of fashion) and his suit was more than patched in a few places. He fell heavily on his wrist cursing like a sailor. 

“Should watch where you’re going boy,” hissed the man. “Got enough aches without being run down on the pavement.” 

John felt he could hardly be called a boy, but let the comment go. He was hardly in a mood to deal with a man who half walked into him in the first place. “Listen. I—“ 

“Sorry?” he snapped. “Should be glad I didn’t break something.” He rubbed his wrist with a look of pain on his face.

He'd have left the old man to rot in his complaints on the street, but the way the man rubbed his wrist gave him a second glance. He scowled retrieving the last of his groceries, “Look. If you’d like you could come in and I’ll give you something for the wrist,” he paused seeing the man’s skeptical expression, “I'm a general practitioner, and I can at least set a wrist I assure you."

The man grumbled something under his breath, and John hoped he would refuse until he muttered, “Fine. A pot of tea and I might decide you aren't worth my time.” 

If it would get the man to leave him be... then fine.  John let the matter drop as he opened the door to his flat. 

“Take a seat wherever,“ he said before setting his things on the kitchen table and going to heat up water. He could hear the man shifting in his living room and he half wondered if he'd be cleared out of house and home when he stepped back in. He was relatively surprised everything was intact and the man appeared to be examining his bookshelf as John set out a pot and turned to fetch the paracetamol. 

“You really should work on your collection, it might assist with your writing,” it was the change in the voice caused John to nearly stumble from his work. He started even as the man began to turn around. “Although of late you seemed to have stopped writing altogether, to my utter disappointment I should add. While I still find your notions far romanticized, I admit to finding the stories both nostalgic and far more interesting than any dispatches that Mycroft might provide. Admittedly yours are far less accurate but I...”

The bottle slipped from his hand, and he felt his mouth go dry. There was a buzzing in his ears, and for a brief moment John thought he may very well pass out. He was slipping to the ground when Sherlock was across the room grabbing for him. 

He’d discarded the disguise. Only now did he see that the latex and wig lay in a pile by the door.

John noticed with dismay that without them the damn coat was still as off putting as ever. 

God... He'd nearly forgotten... 

Sherlock started to move away and John grabbed for his hand. The detective paused as though caught in a trap before patting him gently on the shoulder, “I assure you John, I am simply fetching a restorative before you pass out completely. I see your taste for the dramatic has not been lost entirely.” 

John could feel a giggle rising in his lips, and by the time the man reappeared from his kitchen with both a glass of water and a tumbler of whiskey; he was nearly doubled over in laughter. 

John grabbed for the drink without so much as a second thought and could barely hear Sherlock trying to tell him to "Breath John. For Godsake don't choke-"  

"Hah! Wouldn't that be a-" his laughter came harder. 

The detective looked to be at a loss. He placed a hesitant hand on the other man's shoulder as John’s laughter turned less hysterical. “I suppose you wish to have me explain…” 

“My God is that even possible?” Another chuckle as John stared at Sherlock, “I dare say the whole matter is rather simple. My dead flat mate’s talking to me. Obviously I’ve cracked well and good, suppose it should have been expected given recent events.” He paused reaching out to brush Sherlock’s cheek, “Have to say I'm pleased how solid you are for a hallucination though.”

"Oh?"

"Only fair you've finally become a proper delusion how frequently I've seen you."  

"You've seen me before?”

John nearly began laughing again at the puzzling expression on the detective's face. Not real then... my god the real one would never willingly repeat a question.. 

“Yeah, suppose you could say that, usually when I’m helping Lestrade. Course you’ve never spoken to me before, this is rather new…” He chuckled again, “What am I going to tell Harry. Course she knew it ran in our family. Crazy the whole lot of u—“ 

Funny but John didn't think hallucinations should be solid enough to grab your shoulders and force you to look up.

“John, whatever idiot assumption you have going on in your head I am quite real I assure you. I regret that I was unable to inform you of the events after the fall, but both Mycroft and I agreed it would be impossible to keep up the ruse if you had been aware.”

Another soft exhalation of breath and the man added, "I admit. I missed you."

John felt the breathe run out of him. 

"It is you."

“Please tell me your intelligence didn't decrease that exponentially while I was gone.”

"But..."

"Yes John. I assure you I have returned." 

“No shit.”

It was hard to breath and his hand tightened around the arm chair. “Sherlock-“ 

He could not have seen it coming. The turn of the detective's head, a flash of his eyes, and a moment later the man's lips pressed roughly against his. It was swift, or would have been, John supposed, had he not threaded his fingers into Sherlock’s hair dragging him back down even as the detective tried to pull away.

He could taste left over cigarettes and stale coffee. There was a hint of aftershave filling his nostrils, and the scent of days travelling. Nothing feminine, nothing of his previous conquest-- just Sherlock. 

Sherlock bloody Holmes. Alive and well and pushing him back against the sagging furniture. 

“You started smoking again.” Why wouldn't that be the first thing Sherlock said when he pulled away. Always the romantic, “You never even used patches when we shared a flat.” 

He wanted to slug the man, he'd have to later.

“Yeah well things change in three years,” the words had more bite then he’d meant them too. 

Sherlock seemed to take the response in stride, “Yes I suppose they do.” He bent down, this time a quick kiss followed by a smile, “Although in this instance I think it may be for the best."

"Indeed...." John slid his hand along the other man's chest. He wanted to take him apart, cover every scar, every inch to make certain he was alive. "Where are you staying?"

"Mycroft’s kept 221 B for me-" Of course. It explained some things. Sherlock went on"-Although I am afraid I may have given Mrs. Hudson quite a shock. I was worried a bit for her heart when she saw me.” 

“I can only imagine,” John said... two punches then. After his own nerves had recovered of course. 

“You can move back in tomorrow if you like. She misses you. I am afraid; however, that I shall have to fill you with the rest of the details later. There is a case that has a dire need for assistance, and it is imperative that I finish some final business before I am able to look into properly.” His eyes were bright and excited, and John felt his body tremor in anticipation. 

“Might be dangerous,” Sherlock’s smile was infectious. “Want to come?” 

“Yes. Oh God, yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> I stole quite a bit from cannon, things that I found fascinating about Watson and that I’m afraid I’ve abused quite a bit for my own purposes. The idea spawned from some private research, as well as the want to incorporate Mary. I feel I’ve been a bit cruel here, but I took things to stride. For one, I didn’t wish to have her die because given John’s past in Sherlock I frankly felt it would be too much following Sherlock’s death and the effects from the war (there was baggage there I didn’t want to deal with, the least of which included the gun in his drawer).
> 
> Instead I decided to focus on his other vices, and while John Watson is quite definitely a good man the fact remains that he is noted to be both a womanizer and gambler in canon. With the parallel of Harry to stem from, I decided it was believable enough.
> 
> You’ll have to forgive the errors, my previous fandoms never required a Brit pick so this fic is somewhat lacking. I did what I could (oh god the research), but given the length I have no doubt those unsightly Americanisms creeped in.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Reviews are always loved.


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